


A Shoulder to Cry On

by 1treehill



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21983932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1treehill/pseuds/1treehill
Summary: Holden Ford attempts to control his panic attacks while facing a new case, but is feeling alone. He wonders if Bill Tench was ever his friend.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 73





	A Shoulder to Cry On

Holden Ford shook the small pill bottle in his hand, just enough to hear the remaining Valium rattling around comfortingly. Recently, he found that he was able to judge how many pills were left by sound, which he found vaguely worrisome. Fifteen powdery tablets left, he guessed, annoyed that with every shake the outside layer of the pills was wearing away. Whenever he took a Valium he noticed the inside of the bottle coated with dust and tried not to imagine licking it up.

Holden realized he was psychologically addicted, if not physically addicted. The Valium offered his only comfort when he sensed a panic attack approaching. If he took a pill early enough, the unbearable fear would ease into a medical calm. It was not a real feeling of peace, but it certainly worked for him.

The calm was always followed by what Holden thought of as the hangover— bones aching like he was getting over the flu and face flushed with embarrassment at not being able to overcome his weakness without drugs.

When the panic attacks were not taking up all his attention, the fear of having a panic attack was. He didn’t know anybody who experienced such episodes. He’d only heard of them from the doctor at the hospital when he was first diagnosed. Holden had suffered from these attacks since adolescence, but never had an official name for it until then. He was a man who panicked, who let himself panic. He felt weak and unmanly.

Sometimes the fear of having an attack would be enough to bring on an attack, which would have been funny if it wasn’t so sad. He lived in fear of having an episode in public, especially in front of his coworkers, particularly Bill. Bill, who he had thought of as his friend, until the incident in Vacaville. Bill, who recently seemed to not want to have anything to do with him and kept major personal information from him. “Pull yourself together,” he would hear in his head in Bill’s antagonistic voice whenever he felt an attack brewing.

Holden headed to the basement office of the BSU and forced himself to stop fiddling with the pill bottle in his jacket pocket. He counted in his head the number of steps from the elevator to the door of the main area of the department, hoping that he would end up on a good number, like something ending with a seven or nine. Then he felt assured that the day would be good, free from an attack.

He knew that his behavioral tics were increasing. He was biting his lip more when stressed and bouncing his leg almost constantly at his desk. And he was spending too much time ironing his clothes, chronically worried about wrinkles and creases. But he couldn’t seem to help it.

Holden sat at his desk, right leg twitching away until he consciously stopped. Bill and Wendy seemed to be in Wendy’s office. He assumed they had a new case. But when the door opened, he heard laughter and light chatter. Wendy had her hand on Bill’s arm and was chuckling, almost bent over with uncontrolled hilarity. Holden stared in shock at this uncharacteristic display from his normally icy coworker.

Bill was snickering but more sober than Wendy. His eyes slid over to Holden’s briefly, then continued around the room. Holden was used to Bill not paying him any attention, but the man’s closeness with Wendy was new, and Holden felt an almost adolescent level of hurt and jealousy.

Bill came over to Holden’s desk and, without looking at him, said, “You look tired. What’s wrong with you now?” Holden, shocked, said defensively, “Nothing. I’m fine, Bill.” He turned to his typewriter and threaded a piece of paper into the roller even though he had nothing to type. Bill quickly walked away towards his office.

Holden wasn’t sure why Bill seemed so angry with him all the time. He understood Bill’s annoyance right after Vacaville. That made sense. He had made the man fly all the way out to Sacramento just because Ed Kemper had hugged him, so yeah, he understood. But though Holden was less than proud of the final outcome, he didn’t feel like he had done anything to completely piss off Bill in Atlanta. Maybe Ted asking Bill to babysit Holden still rankled the older man.

Whatever the reason, Bill certainly didn’t seem to be Holden’s friend anymore. In fact, Holden had never felt so alone, not since childhood. Debbie was out of his life, and the only person he really talked to these days was his psychiatrist, and Holden paid her to listen to him. And he did everything possible to only tell her what he had to in order to get his refills.

Holden was lost in thoughts of his own isolation when his body seemed to decide he was going to try to reach out to Bill and he found himself knocking on Bill’s office door. He felt nervous, and reached into his pocket with his other hand.

Bill said, “Come in,” and Holden quickly walked in, closed the door and sat in the chair. Bill instantly looked annoyed, which didn’t help Holden’s nerves.

Holden quickly said, “Bill, I was wondering if we could talk.”

Bill just stared at him for a moment, his eyes narrowed in confusion. “What about, Holden?”

“Are you angry with me?” Holden asked directly.

Bill rolled his eyes and answered, “Why would I be angry with you?” It sounded sarcastic to Holden’s ears.

“I don’t know, Bill. There could be a lot of reasons you’re mad at me. But I can’t remember doing anything recently to piss you off,” Holden said petulantly.

“Holden, if you have something important to say, just say it. I’m busy, and I would think you’re busy as well,” Bill responded.

Holden paused for a moment and decided on a change in tack. “Bill, how are things with Brian?”

Bill looked even more annoyed, if possible. “Fine, Holden. Fine. He’s doing better. Now can I go back to work?”

“Sure. I just want you to know that if you want to talk to me, I’m here, okay?” Holden said, aware of just how awkward he sounded.

Bill gave Holden a sour look and turned away from him. Holden walked back to his own desk in the common area, feeling worse than before.

Later in the afternoon, Bill’s phone rang, shrill through the half open door. Holden counted the rings, hoping it was good news. Three, four…

“Bill Tench. Yes, Ted. We’ll be right up.” Four, a neutral number for Holden. He wondered what the meeting was about.

Bill walked to Wendy’s office and collected her, and as if remembering at the last moment, he swung by Holden’s desk and said, “Ted wants to see us right now about a new case.”

Ted greeted the team with his usual bland cheer and immediately detailed the case. “Four men and two women in their 20s and 30s have been tortured and murdered, their bodies found in the Potomac River. That’s basically the FBI’s backyard, so there’s a lot of interest in getting this case solved as soon as possible. Also, the victims were visible members of society. No prostitutes or homeless. These people will be missed.”

Holden thought the last part was unnecessary, but didn’t say anything. He was trying to control his tongue more these days. He didn’t need Bill to have more reasons to be angry at him.

Ted continued, “You’ll be working out of the BSU basement since we’re so close to the PD on the case, but you, Bill, will be the official liaison. I will depend on you keeping them apprised of any developments.”

“Holden, I need your insights on this one. I’m getting a lot of pressure for you to duplicate your success in Atlanta here, and quickly,” Ted said, staring at Holden.

“Success? We tied Williams to only two of the Atlanta murders, and that didn’t include any of the child victims,” Holden said without thinking.

Ted glared at Holden and responded, “Atlanta was a victory for your profile. Wayne Williams couldn’t have matched your description of the unsub more. You practically drew them a picture of him.”

Bill replied, “Holden doesn’t speak for Wendy and myself, sir. We are proud of Atlanta, and we’ll do our best to get the same outcome on this case.”

Holden stared at Bill in disbelief, but the man didn’t look at him.

After the meeting, the three BSU members walked to the elevator. Wendy took Holden aside and said, “Holden, I know you weren’t satisfied by what happened in Atlanta, but you must admit that your profile was very accurate.”

Bill said in passing, “Yeah, our profile, and you don’t have to give Ted reasons to question us, you know. He does that all on his own.”

Wendy looked at Holden kindly and added, “We need to have confidence in our process. We won’t be able to catch the killer every time, but if we’re consistent then we may be able to catch them most of the time.”

Holden tried to control his anxiety, but every time Atlanta was brought up, he felt himself spiral. Despite Wayne Williams’ arrest, he knew the man wasn’t responsible for all or even most of the child murders there, and he felt nothing but guilt. He found himself questioning profiling in general, something he had absolute faith in before Atlanta. In effect, he was questioning himself. His fingertips felt for the bottle of pills in his pocket and he counted his footsteps back to the office.

Holden spent that night ironing his clothes for the next day, making a smoothie that he ultimately didn’t drink, and then watching TV news until the early hours of the morning. He wasn’t sleeping much, nervousness never letting him fall deeply asleep until he was so exhausted there was no more choice.

He dreamt of a faceless man, voice rumbly and deep, clearly disappointed and angry at him. The voice was never raised, but suddenly he was hit across the face and knocked to the ground. The man then had a face, and it was Bill’s. Holden woke with a gasp. What was that about? Bill had never hit him. Was he so concerned with Bill’s opinion of him that his subconscious mind had Bill physically attacking him? It didn’t make sense, and Holden was slightly embarrassed by the dream. It was only 2:20 a.m., and Holden attempted to go back to sleep, unsuccessfully. He lay there for hours staring out his bedroom window.

At the office, the members of the BSU pored over photos and crime scene reports of the victims of who they began calling the Potomac Killer. Autopsies were near impossible due to the bodies being in water so long. Memories of Atlanta came up for all of them. Each body showed signs of torture— cuts, bruises, in one man’s case, missing fingers.

The victims were all upstanding members of society, with jobs ranging from grade school teacher to janitor. One woman was a housewife with a small child. They appeared to have nothing in common. Holden felt a frisson of nervousness pass through his body at his confusion over the case. He told himself, think of this as a challenge, not as another chance for failure.

Bill and Holden had an appointment to meet with the wife of a 26-year-old accountant who was found a week ago washed ashore on the Potomac. He’d only been missing for three days when his body was found, but the river water had bloated the body to the point where identification was difficult. The man had cuts along his lower arms and was missing the tips of three fingers on his right hand. Other more superficial injuries dotted his body, including bruises and smaller cuts, but the cause of death was a deep slash on the neck that severed the left carotid artery. Arthur Simpson died in ten minutes, bleeding out.

The cold details of the autopsy report couldn’t prepare the two agents for meeting the distraught young widow. Mary Simpson had found no comfort in the week since her husband’s death. She was sobbing as she shook Bill and Holden’s hands. Despite her condition, Mary still offered the men coffee, which they turned down.

“Why would anyone do this to Arthur?” Mary asked, not expecting an answer.

Holden felt anxiety flood his veins at the woman’s emotional display. He was so inept at dealing with victims’ families. He typically left the comforting to Bill, who had a natural social aptitude. But Bill wasn’t saying anything, so Holden reached out a hand and patted Mary on the shoulder.

“We’re very sorry to bother you at such a difficult time, but we just need to follow up on whether you have any ideas if Arthur had met anyone new lately,” Holden said as gently as he could.

Holden glanced at Bill and saw him stifling a chuckle, no doubt at his expense. Fortunately, Mary seemed not to notice.

Mary answered, “These questions about what Arthur was doing before he died make me feel like you think this was his fault.” She was visibly agitated and on the verge of anger.

Bill said, “No, Mrs. Simpson, that’s not what my partner meant at all. We just want to cover everything, including everyone who may have come in contact with your husband.”

“No, no, nobody new. Arthur worked a lot. He was home late almost every day, but he was dedicated to his job,” Mary insisted.

The two men couldn’t get any new information from Mary, and they left frustrated and exhausted. Holden was relieved that he staved off a panic attack, but the interview and his internal efforts to hold in his anxiety had taken a toll. His entire body felt exhausted, as if he had just run a marathon. And his emotions were close to the surface. He thought that if Bill even looked at him funny, he would burst into tears.

“I’m sorry, Bill. I could have handled that better,” Holden said without looking at Bill.

“Forget it,” Bill answered. “She didn’t have anything to offer us anyway. But you could work on your people skills, you know.”

Holden’s eyes filled with tears and he looked away from Bill, wondering why he ever thought this man was his friend. He remembered having dinner at Bill and Nancy’s house, sitting on the floor with Brian, how Bill put his hand on Holden’s shoulder, how his hand was so warm and kind.

They repeated the interview process with the other five victims’ loved ones, and the result was the same. No new people in their lives, no changes in habit. Six good human beings mourned by so many good people, all dead for no good reason, all killed by the same psychopath.

After a week, Bill was almost as anxious as Holden. At the end of another long day, Holden was sitting at his desk, and he noted to Gregg, “Bill should just go home. His wife and son need him more than we do.”

Gregg looked surprised and said, “Holden, you don’t know?”

“What?” Holden asked.

Gregg looked around and said conspiratorially, “Nancy left Bill a month ago, and she took Brian. She and Bill are talking about a divorce.”

Holden lost his breath for a second. He couldn’t believe Bill hadn’t said anything. He told Gregg, but he didn’t tell him? Holden felt his breathing grow rapid and shallow. Oh, God, not now, he thought. Not an attack, not here. He quickly left the office and headed to the men’s room. He entered a stall, closed the door and sat on the toilet, attempting to regulate his breathing.

Holden felt tears dripping down his face and he could hear himself wheezing as if from far away. He couldn’t believe he’d almost had a panic attack in front of Gregg. He would never live that down if that had happened. He had to get himself together.

“I’m alive. I’m here. I’m okay. I’m alive. I’m here. I’m okay,” Holden chanted quietly to himself. He pinched himself hard on the arm with his fingernails, hoping to ground himself in reality. The skin turned red, but he couldn’t feel the pain. It was as if he was pinching somebody else. Did he even exist?

He’d left his Valium in his jacket pocket. His jacket was thrown over his chair in the office. He had to go back. Holden left the stall and wet his face at the sink, hoping the cold water would snap him out of this feeling of not being real. He dried his face and walked quickly back to his desk, and without looking around, grabbed his bottle of Valium, popped the cover off, shook a pill out and swallowed it dry.

He closed his eyes, and imagined the little pill entering his system, spreading blue calm throughout his body and mind. He knew it was his imagination that made him think the medicine was already working, but he didn’t care. When he opened his eyes, Gregg and Bill were standing nearby staring at him.

Holden felt his face burning with shame. Gregg looked very uncomfortable but didn’t say anything. He sat quietly back down at his desk. Bill gave Holden a look of confusion and what looked a lot like disgust, shook his head and walked out of the office area.

Holden took a deep breath and jogged after Bill, who was now in the hallway, on his way home. “Bill,” he called out.

“What is it, Holden? I’m going home, finally.”

“I just found out about Nancy leaving. Why didn’t you tell me?” Holden’s eyes filled with tears and he couldn’t make himself care.

“Because, Holden, it isn’t any of your business,” Bill said, attempting to turn away.

“But it’s Gregg’s business?” Holden spluttered.

“Gregg has a family. He understands how this feels. It doesn’t mean anything, Holden.”

“Okay, Bill,” Holden said, feeling deeply sad and alone. “I just want you to know that I’m sorry. That’s all.”

As Holden turned back towards the office, he heard Bill’s voice. “Holden.”

Holden turned back, and Bill muttered, “Thanks,” and then he walked away.

Holden had more dark dreams involving the faceless man muttering cruel words at him, filling him with insecurity and self-hatred. This time though the man became his father. And when Holden awoke, he understood and accepted the dream.

At the office, Holden looked over the notes to an interview with a man whose wife, the young mother, had been found in the river over a month ago. There was something in the interview that was bothering him, and he couldn’t figure out what it was.

Bill passed by Holden’s desk and said, “What’s going on, Holden? You looking for something?”

“Terri Norton’s whereabouts were known almost all the time, nearly every day of the week. But there was one time her husband wasn’t sure about. Jerome Norton said he came home and his wife and baby weren’t there, that a neighbor was taking care of the child,” Holden said in a monotone.

“Yeah? So?” Bill asked.

“So, where was Terri? He never said.”

“You think she was with the killer?” Bill started looking interested.

“I think we should find out where she was, who she was with,” Holden responded.

Jerome Norton said he didn’t know where his wife was for those few hours, but finally admitted it wasn’t the first time Terri went missing. After further questioning by Holden and Bill, he also said Terri had changed a bit over the last few months of her life. And that he had caught her with unexplained bruises. When questioned about them, Terri responded defensively and blamed the bruises on her own clumsiness, which was atypical of her.

This led to more intense questioning of the other victims’ families and similar admittances of times the victim would be “somewhere, I don’t know where,” and would later be caught with mysterious bruises or sometimes cuts.

Then finally, a young victim’s friend knew who the victim was visiting on occasion in private, and Bill and Holden drove to Fredericksburg to interview the man, Harry Buckley, a 30-year-old living alone with no known place of employment.

Buckley lived in a small house behind another larger house, and Holden and Bill noted the tidiness of the place, as if it had just been cleaned. The man greeted them warmly and invited them into his living room.

“How can I help you?” Buckley asked, looking directly at both men.

“You recently spent some time with Julie Barrow, who was found dead about three weeks ago. Can you tell us the nature of your relationship to her?” Bill asked.

“Why? I mean, we were just friends. She’d come over here and spend some time chatting,” Buckley answered in a faintly agitated manner.

Holden said, “No reason to be defensive, sir. We’re looking into everybody who spent time with the victims.”

“Victims, plural? More than Julie?” Buckley asked.

“We believe Miss Barrow was one of six victims of a single killer,” Bill said. “All six had a significant number of bruises and cuts, many which we now believe were made prior to death.”

“Huh. That’s weird,” Buckley muttered. “That’s got nothing to do with me.” He was no longer looking into Holden and Bill’s eyes. “I’ll be right back.”

Buckley disappeared through a bead curtain leading to the kitchen.

Holden and Bill sat quietly for a few minutes, then Bill said wryly, “He’s not coming back, is he?”

They stood up and drew their weapons.

“Mr. Buckley,” Holden called out. “Please come out with your hands up.” There was no response.

Holden watched Bill enter the kitchen while he stayed in the living room. Bill was pulling the beads back on the curtain while pointing the gun into the kitchen when suddenly Buckley appeared beside Holden and jabbed him in the side with something, then turned around and fled.

“Hold it right there! FBI!” Bill shouted, and Buckley looked like he wanted to run, then thought better of it. He stopped and raised his hands in the air. Bill quickly put handcuffs on the man and then looked at his silent partner.

Holden was holding his side with his left hand. He lifted his hand away and Bill saw the blood, on both Holden’s hand and staining his white shirt.

“Kid, what happened?” Bill shouted.

“I think he stabbed me,” Holden said quietly and then slumped slowly to the ground.

“Shit! Don’t move, asshole!” Bill said as Buckley creeped farther away from him. “Where’s your phone, Buckley?”

The man sheepishly pointed at his telephone, and Bill called 911, asking for an ambulance and a police unit to come to the address. Bill rushed to Holden’s side.

“Bill, it’s not bad. I don’t think it’s very deep,” Holden said faintly. He looked on the verge of passing out despite his words.

While waiting for the ambulance, Buckley couldn’t keep his mouth closed.

“They all wanted to be hurt. I enjoyed hurting them, but they all asked for it. I don’t know who’s sicker, them or me. They couldn’t admit what they needed to their wives and husbands, but they could to me. And I gave them what they craved. I was providing a service,” he rattled on.

Bill looked at him with annoyance etched on his face. “You killed them, you bastard! Did they want that?”

“Well, I started going too far,” Buckley admitted.

At the emergency room, Bill waited anxiously on word about Holden. The kid had never passed out, but he looked bad. Pale, sweaty, weak.

A doctor came out looking for Holden’s next of kin. Bill walked up to the man and asked, “How is he?”

The doctor answered, “The wound is not serious, but Mr. Ford is showing signs of exhaustion, dehydration, malnutrition and depression. This injury just adds to his general unwellness. I’d like to keep him for a few days, until his condition improves.”

Bill was clearly confused. “Unwellness? He seemed fine to me.”

The doctor gave him a pointed look and said, “Fine is the last thing he is. I don’t know his situation, but he hasn’t been taking care of himself. His panic attacks have been worsening, and the Valium is not as effective as it once was.”

“What do we do?” Bill asked in exasperation.

“Well, we keep him here, hydrate and feed him, give him a transfusion of blood, consult with his psychiatrist on medication. Then we release him and hope he takes better care of himself,” the doctor replied.

“Okay. What do I do?” Bill asked.

“Depends on your relationship to Mr. Ford. Either let him figure things out himself, or at least be a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen to him,” the doctor said.

Holden was asleep when Bill came into his room. There were about five other patients sharing the same area. He sat in the chair next to Holden and waited for him to awaken.

Bill suddenly woke up to find Holden staring at him.

“Hey, kid. Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep. How are you feeling?” Bill asked, feeling uncomfortable.

“I’m okay. The doctor said it wasn’t bad, but for some reason he wants to keep me here for a few days,” Holden muttered, looking upset.

“He literally said you haven’t been taking care of yourself, Holden. What’s up with you?” Bill said angrily.

Holden looked like he was going to cry. “I’ve been taking care of myself since I was a teenager, Bill. I don’t know what he’s talking about. I have panic attacks. I have anxiety. I’m dealing with it the best I can.”

Bill sobered at Holden’s words. “You don’t have to do it alone, kid. You know that, don’t you?”

“How would I know that, Bill? I am alone. I have nobody to talk to except my psychiatrist, and she listens at $60 an hour, and that’s 50 minutes in psychiatrist time. I don’t mean to whine, but when you say I’m not alone…” Holden looked away, trying to pull himself together. Bill wouldn’t want to listen to him complaining.

Bill sat for a while, thinking on Holden’s words. He’d been put through the wringer by Nancy, and he’d been so concerned about the effect of their separation on Brian. There was no time to deal with Holden’s problems.

But he considered Holden his friend, maybe even his responsibility, and he’d been absent in the young man’s life since Vacaville. And he’d felt some hostility toward Holden since Ted asked him to babysit him, as if Holden was some golden child who needed protection from the mean world. But maybe that wasn’t fair to Holden.

“I’m sorry, Holden,” Bill began. “I knew you were going through a hard time, but I couldn’t look past my own problems.”

“No, Bill, don’t say that. What you’ve been going through is so much worse than what’s been happening to me. You’ve lost your family. I’m just… nervous,” Holden said with shame.

“It’s more than that, kid. You know that. I don’t understand it, but I saw what you went through at the office that one time, and I saw real pain in your face,” Bill said earnestly. “I want to be there to help you. If you need to talk, if you need someone to listen to you.”

“I want the same thing, Bill. You should be able to tell me about… everything. I’m not so self-absorbed that I can’t be a friend,” Holden said.

“And maybe I have been, Holden. I blamed you for a lot, more than you deserve. And for that I will always be sorry, and that’s all I’m gonna say about this,” Bill said with finality.

When Holden was released from the hospital, Bill was there to drive him home.

“How’s Brian?” Holden asked in the car after a long silence.

Holden waited nervously for Bill’s response.

“He’s better, Holden. Talking a little more. Maybe Nancy was right that a move was what he needed. Thanks for asking,” Bill said, and he meant every word.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story in a long time. I had quite the writer's block after watching the second season, and I don't know exactly why. Please be kind to my rusty writing!


End file.
